


The Moonstone

by The_Morrigan



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Female George, Genderswapped George, Mentions of Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2020-12-07 21:22:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Morrigan/pseuds/The_Morrigan
Summary: Georgie Dawson knew where the Moonstone was headed. She knew it was no place for a woman. But she also knew that Peter and his father were putting their lives at risk by going, and she couldn’t let them go alone. This war had already taken too much from her.AU Dunkirk fic in which George is a woman named Georgie and does not fall down the stairs. Collins/OFC.





	1. Chapter 1

Dawson was pushing the Moonstone’s engines so hard that Georgie had to hold onto the rails to keep from losing her footing. They’d seen the Spitfire go down with no chute, but it hadn’t fallen far. Behind her, Peter was yelling that the pilot was likely dead, but his father wouldn’t turn. The pilot might be alive, and if he was, there was no way Dawson would leave him. 

Georgie’s hair was whipping across her face. She cursed it, wishing she’d had the foresight to put it up that morning, but she hadn’t anticipated that she’d be careening across the Channel on a desperate rescue mission when she’d woken up that morning. Beside her was one of the blankets they’d loaded for the journey, a corner ripped by the scrambling feet of the shivering soldier they’d pulled out of the water earlier. She reached down and grabbed the scrap of fabric, pulling a length loose across the bottom of the threadbare cloth and wound it around her head to keep the curls out of her eyes. When she looked up again, she could see the plane in the water.

It had landed in one piece, floating on top of the water as if sitting on a runway waiting to be boarded. From here she couldn’t even see the damage that had caused it to go down. But as they got closer they could see that the shutter was still shut tight. Maybe the pilot had managed to glide the plane down, but he hadn’t ejected, which meant he was most likely dead.

Dawson’s eyes met hers as she felt him slow the engine. She didn’t want to say that Peter had been right, that their diversion off course had been for nothing. If the pilot had survived, they would have seen a chute. 

Barely three yards from the port side now, the plane was filling with water and began to sink. Georgie crossed herself as she watched the vessel slowly being submerged, her thoughts invariably going to the poor family who wouldn’t even have a body to bury. She kept her eyes trained on the plane when she saw it.

Movement. 

A hand. No, a fist, punching desperately at the glass. 

He was alive. 

He was trapped.

“Dad!” she screamed to Dawson, who had just begun to turn the Moonstone away. “Dad, look! He’s alive!”

The three Dawsons moved with fury at the realization that the pilot was still alive, trapped inside his cockpit as his plane rapidly filled with water. Peter grabbed the boat hook and scrambled to the edge of the boat. Georgie readied a blanket as Mr. Dawson put full speed ahead to reach the plane.

The top of the plane was just drifting under water when they reached him, and Peter swung the boat hook with all the force he could muster, Georgie gripping the edge of his jumper to keep him from going over. The glass broke and the pilot shot up and out and when his head broke through the water Georgie froze. 

The uniform was covered by his life vest, but the color and insignia were instantly recognizable. His hair, his eyes, his skin--the resemblance was so exact that for a moment Georgie felt like she’d been plunged over the boat into the ice cold water right beside him. 

If Peter had noticed, he hadn’t had the same reaction, barely missing a beat as he pulled the boathook in and thrust out a hand to the floundering pilot. The man reached up gratefully, looking for all intents and purposes like he was using his last ounce of strength to grasp Peter’s outstretched fingers. But when they clasped hands and Peter pulled him in, the man let out an irreverent, “Afternoon,” as if he were taking the last empty seat in a train car.

The voice was different, with a lilting Scottish accent that was evident even in that single short word, and it shocked Georgie out of her trance. This man was not who she’d thought he was. That man was gone, lost in the cold water as this one had almost been--but this one now had a chance to live.

If they could get him onto the boat. 

Georgie stumbled forward to help Peter, who was struggling to get the waterlogged pilot over the side of the boat. She reached down and pulled, and the three of them collapsed on the deck, the pilot gasping for breath and slumping against the rails. Peter went back to his father, and Georgie crouched down beside him, wrapping the blanket around his shaking shoulders.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

The adrenaline wearing off and the cold setting in, he shook his head, but Georgie peeled off his soaking wet gloves and saw that his knuckles were bloody. She swallowed hard at the sight of that bloody hand, doing everything she could to keep her own from shaking. The last thing she needed was for Peter to see her blanching at the sight of blood--he hadn’t wanted her to come in the first place. But it wasn’t the blood that was making her heart pound.

God, this man looked so much like him. Had his hands been bloodied like that as he clawed at an unforgiving machine, desperate to escape? Or had it been over too quickly for him to know the difference? She didn’t know. They’d never found out what happened.

The pilot saw her staring at his hand and clenched his fist. “It’s nothing, lass,” he said, voice shaking with the cold. 

Georgie scoffed, snapping out of it. Barely pulled from a watery grave, this man was trying to reassure her when she should be the one offering comfort to him. She steeled herself, shaking the memory of a dead man’s face out of her head and stood, reaching down to pull him up.

“On your feet, soldier,” she said. “It’s warmer below.” 

The sandy-haired pilot exhibited none of the reticence that the shivering soldier had shown in going below decks. He followed her dutifully, clutching the blanket tightly around his body. Georgie poured him a cup of tea and handed it to him. He took it gratefully, collapsing onto the bench seat and inadvertently sloshing a little of the warm liquid over his red fingertips. As he sipped it, he managed a small chuckle.

“Long way from home, you lot,” he said.

Georgie busied herself with putting on another kettle so she wouldn’t have to look at his face, still so much like his that it shocked her to hear that unfamiliar voice coming out of his mouth. 

“A call went out,” she told him, echoing what Dawson had said earlier. “We’re headed to Dunkirk.” She said the last sentence slightly softly, still wary of the soldier who was resting in the adjacent bunk. Whatever this pilot had seen did not seem as emotionally scarring, because the pilot took the news in stride, nodding his head as he sipped his tea.

“Good,” he said. “We need all the help we can get.” 

Georgie reached into a cabinet and pulled out the boat’s first aid kit. She fiddled with it in her hands a moment, considering just tossing it over to him and letting him fend for himself. But she shook her head again, trying to tell herself that this was what she came here for. She’d been the one to jump aboard the Moonstone at the last second, insisting that she wanted to help. Granted, she hadn’t anticipated an encounter with a ghost in an RAF uniform, but she couldn’t let that get in the way of what she came to do.

She sat on the bench seat next to the pilot and opened the kit, taking out a rag and some iodine. “For your hands,” she said simply, and he held out his injured hand, still shaking slightly from exhaustion. 

He didn’t wince when the stinging antiseptic touched his scrapes, but he refused the bandage she attempted to put over his knuckles.

“Don’t bother, lass,” he said. “I imagine it won’t stay dry.”

She nodded and began to pack the first aid kit away and the silence grew longer between them. She tried to think of something she could say but everything she thought of seemed either far too familiar or woefully inadequate. In the end, he was the one to interrupt the quiet, looking over his tea. 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

She looked up at him, but for the life of her couldn’t think of what to say to that. You’re welcome? Don’t mention it? All of the standard responses seemed to come up short. But at that moment the door to the cabin burst open and the shivering soldier stumbled out, looking every bit as unsteady as he had when Peter had pulled him aboard. 

Georgie instinctively jumped up and pulled away. The solider had gotten combative on the deck earlier when he’d found out their destination, and only came short of physical violence when Georgie had put herself between him and Peter. She’d had to convince Peter not to lock him in the cabin, knowing that it would only make things worse. The soldier had been able to get control of himself, but looking at him now Georgie worried that he might be losing his grip again.

“Alright, Soldier?” she asked, using a very particular voice. Georgie volunteered whenever she could at the hospitals in town, helping to tie bandages and launder linens when they had an influx of patients. Injured soldiers who no longer needed to be cared for at the busy London hospitals were often sent to the smaller towns to convalesce, and Georgie often heard the ward sisters speak to them this way. The no-nonsense tone seemed to cut through to them, and Georgie assumed it has something to do with their training. 

The soldier nodded and held out a shaking hand. In his fist he clutched the mug of tea Georgie had given him earlier. Wordlessly, Georgie took the cup and refilled it, handing it back to him.

“Are we still going to Dunkirk?” he asked.

“Yes,” Georgie replied.

The soldier began to shake his head, muttering a soft “no” under his breath over and over. The pilot was watching him with a wary eye, and stood very slowly as if trying not to spook a wounded animal. 

“Steady on, Private,” he said gently.

The soldier looked up at him, pleading in his eyes. “No, I can’t go back.” He turned to Georgie. “You have to bring me home. Just bring me home first and then you can go on without me. Please.”

Georgie tilted her head to the side, her fear of this man replaced with sympathy. He was still so young, only a few years older than Peter. The war was barely a year in and already he would never be the same. 

“I’m sorry,” she told him. “We have to go. We have to help--”

The soldier put his hands up, cutting her off. “I’m not stopping you. You just can’t bring me back there. You have to let me off. I need to get off this boat.”

Georgie could tell that the soldier was unravelling again. She lifted her hands instinctively as if to show that she didn’t have a weapon. “I know--” she began.

“YOU DON’T KNOW!” he shouted, throwing the cup of tea violently to the ground, sending the metal cup bouncing across the floor. “YOU WEREN’T THERE! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT WAS LIKE THERE. YOU DON’T KNOW!”

The soldier came forward at her, a fist raised in her direction. The pilot sprang forward, his blanket falling to the floor as he put himself between Georgie and the unstable young man. He put his hands out onto the soldier’s shoulders, taking firm hold of them and stopping him in his tracks.

“Stand down, Private!” he barked, and Georgie jumped. She couldn’t tell based on his uniform if he outranked the solider in front of him--if anything he looked younger--but at any rate the order seemed to get through to him. “She wasn’t there, true. But she’s on her way. These people are willing to put themselves in danger to save our boys. That’s just as much as I signed on to do, and you as well. So this boat is going to Dunkirk and the only way off it is over the side. Am I clear, Private?”

The soldier was shivering again, but Georgie thought it was from a different reason than the cold. Keeping his eyes down, he nodded before looking up at Georgie. “I’m sorry, Miss.”

Georgie nodded, acknowledging the apology. “They could use some help on deck,” she told him, and he took her suggestion, heading up the steps. Truthfully she didn’t know if he would be welcome on deck, she just wanted to get him away from her for a moment. 

When he was gone, she turned to the pilot. “Thank you,” she told him, picking his discarded blanket up off the floor.

He took it from her and wiped it across his face. “Least I could do. Jack Collins. Collins.”

She took his offered hand and shook it. “Georgiana Dawson.” His hand had warmed with the tea and his cuts had stopped bleeding. She slipped hers from his grip as soon as she could without seeming impolite, and stooped to pick up the discarded mug. He’d stepped closer to her when he’d offered his hand, and she needed an excuse to stop looking at him.

She’d expected that he would leave her to clean up the mess and follow the solider up onto the deck, or take the opportunity to rest once more on the seat or lie down in the now vacant bunk. But instead he found a rag in a cabinet above the kettle and crouched down next to her to sop up the spilled tea.

“You don’t have to--”

“Och, it’s nothing lass. My mother didn’t believe a woman alone should keep a home clean. I’ve three brothers at home and we all spent our share of days scrubbing the floors just as our sisters did.”

Despite herself Georgie smiled, wondering just how many Collins siblings there were. “Where’s home?” she asked.

“Swanston. It’s mostly dairy farms. There’s more cows than people. Beautiful though. You could walk for hours through the heather and not see a single soul.”

“It sounds lovely.”

“And you? Where are you lot from?”

“Weymouth, in Dorset.”

“And that’s where you sailed from? I can’t say I expected to see civilians headed where you are.”

“We shouldn’t be. The Navy wanted to requisition her. We were just unloading her to make room. But Dad--but Mr. Dawson said none of them could handle her the way he could.”

“Lucky for me.” There was that smile again, the one that was so much like his that it made her heart ache. No teeth, just lips and puffy, rosy cheeks that made him look ten years younger. 

This time, it made her smile in turn, rather than sink into sadness. “He and Peter weren’t happy with me coming aboard though.” 

“I wondered that they’d let you.”

“It’s not for them to let me do anything. I’m a grown woman, after all.”

His smile grew. “Oh, my mother would like you.”

That was too far. She tried to match his joy at the idea, but was met with a quick stab of pain instead. She looked down at the shards of broken cup in her hand to hide the fact that her face had fallen so abruptly.

“I can manage down here.”

He didn’t take offense, smiling again before getting up, being sure to ring the tea-soaked rag out over the sink before he left. As he made his way back up to the deck she looked after him. When he’d told her his mother would like her, she had felt excited. She’d felt that tickle of excitement she hadn’t felt in so long. She’d had to resist the urge to giggle and blush. 

Cold dread followed. Shame coiled down her throat into her belly, knotting her insides together. She couldn’t deny that what she was feeling was attraction, plain and simple. Talking to him was natural, and pleasant, and the closest she’d felt to normal in a long time. For a moment, that heavy feeling in her chest had felt lighter, almost like it wasn’t there at all. But the second she realized what she was doing, the sadness returned, blindsiding her again. 

She clenched her fists, taking a deep, steadying breath. Just get through today, she told herself. Just get through today and you’ll never have to see him again.

Somehow that thought didn’t bring her the comfort she’d hoped it would.


	2. Chapter 2

Collins was doing his best to pretend that his brush with death hadn’t shaken him. He was not a man who was accustomed to feeling helpless, but as the water rushed in all around him and his fists crashed against the cockpit glass, he’d thought for sure he was a goner. He hadn’t even noticed the approaching boat in his panic, and when the glass above him had broken and he ascended, there was a moment when he thought he might have died after all. 

Her face had risen over the side of the boat, the sun behind her, wild hair glinting in the light. She could have been an angel reaching down to pull him up into heaven. Only when he spilled over onto the deck of the boat did he realize that he was indeed alive.

Georgie was beautiful, and the fact that she’d helped pull him from the jaws of death gave him an intense desire to remain close to her for as long as possible. But the lass seemed a bit unsteady by his presence below decks. No doubt she was a proper young lady, wary of being alone with a man without her father present. When she dismissed him he smiled so she would know he didn’t take offense, and followed the shell-shocked shivering soldier up onto the deck.

He came up, passing the captain of the small yacht for the first time. Georgie’s father, he assumed. Their eyes met for a moment and it looked like the man was going to ask him something. But before he could get the words out, Peter cried out from the bow. They heard an explosion in the distance and all looked towards the noise. 

The Heinkel had returned and dropped its bomb on the destroyer in the distance. A boat that size must be carrying hundreds of evacuated troops, and it was going down quickly. Behind him, Georgie came scrambling up from below decks.

“There’s men in the water!” yelled Peter.

The two siblings met at the edge of the starboard side and Collins noticed how different they looked. Peter was fair and blonde, but Georgie’s hair and eyes were dark, her skin a cooler pale than Peter’s rosy complexion. Regardless of their differences, it was obvious that they had known each other all their lives. They barely spoke as they worked side by side while their father drew the boat nearer the floundering soldiers. Georgie tossed the side of a rope ladder to her brother and the two began securing it to the hull. 

Beside him, Collins heard the whimper of the shivering soldier, huddled up against the wall, his head in his hands. The poor sod was terrified, covering his ears against the sounds of men splashing in the water, calling for help. He wouldn’t be of any help to rescue the stranded passengers. 

Collins left him and hurried to Georgie and Peter’s side as the first of the men reached the boat. He pulled the first man up, his sodden uniform adding at least 20 pounds. Helping Peter with another, he spared a glance at Georgie. She was pulling in a soldier all by herself, and though the man was trying to help her by using the ladder, she was clearly straining with the effort. Her eyes were full of tears and she was gritting her teeth, but the moment she had the man safely on board she leaned down to reach for the next.

He wanted to go to her, to help her, but the men kept coming and reaching up for him. As he pulled the next up onto the deck his foot slipped and he nearly let go, but a hand grabbed his shoulder. The shivering soldier had gotten up from where he cowered and was helping to bring the man up on deck. Collins met his eyes, nodding a silent thank you, when he noticed the slick black liquid now covering his fingertips.

“Oil,” he said, almost to himself, before turning back to Mr. Dawson. “Oil! You’re getting into oil!”

He looked at Georgie again. The poor girl was practically crying with the effort it was taking her to pull man after man up into the boat. Each time she reached over the side his heart jumped, picturing her going over into the oil-slicked water below. That plane was still out there and it would only take one shot to the water’s surface to send the entire thing ablaze.

“Come on, Farrier,” he prayed. 

He left Peter and the shivering soldier to the bow while he made his way to the stern to help Georgie. She was barely holding on to a soldier by the arm, her feet slipping across the decking as she tried to pull him in. When he reached her, her legs gave out and she pitched over. Collins managed to grab her, wrapping his arms around her waist, keeping her from going over the side. Together they pulled the man on board.

She collapsed onto the deck, panting. Collins took her shoulders gently. 

“I’m alright,” she gasped, and dragged herself up. 

He was going to argue, but at that moment he heard the engine of the bomber, coming back around to strike again. If the approaching plane let loose another bomb, the oil would ignite and there would be nowhere for the Moonstone to go to escape the flames. Desperately he searched the sky, and saw Farrier’s Spitfire on the Heinkel’s tail.

“Come on, Farry,” he spat through gritted teeth. “Come on Farry, get around them.”

Georgie looked up at him. She seemed to realize the danger just as well as he did, and renewed her efforts to bring more men on board. Her hands were shaking, and tears were flowing freely down her face now.

Transfixed, he stared out at the approaching dogfight. The men in the water could see the enemy plane approaching, sending them into a panic as they fought to get to safety. Farrier’s spitfire rounded on the Heinkel, sending a spray of bullets into its path. The Heinkel banked, avoiding the shots, but Farrier anticipated its movements and banked along with it. Another spray of bullets found its mark and the Heinkel was hit, smoke streaming out.

Collins’ excitement lasted only a moment when he realized that the Heinkel would crash directly into the oil slick. 

“Go!” he called to Dawson. They had to get to a safe distance before the plane hit. “Go, go, go!”

The engines kicked on and Dawson accelerated as quickly as he could. Beside him, Collins heard Georgie yell a strangled, “No!”

He saw her lunge forward towards the water, and just barely managed to catch her before she went over. The moment his arms closed around her, she began to struggle, her eyes on the men still in the water. 

“No!” she cried as she fought. The men they left behind were waving their hands, and she was struggling toward them as if she could reach. “No, we can still get them!”

The plane hit, exploding as it crashed into the water. The oil went up in a huge fireball, so close to them that Collin’s hair was blown back by the force of it. Georgie screamed, turning into his arms to sheild her face from the wall of heat that hurtled toward them. He wrapped his arms around her tighter as the screams of burning men filled his ears. He could feel her gasping to breathe, feel her heart pounding. Her fingers were gripping the lapels of his jacket as her shoulders shuddered with sobs.

After a moment, the quiet crept back in. The men were no longer screaming, no longer struggling in the water. The only sound was from Peter, who had hold of a soldier’s arm, bringing the boy up onto the deck. 

Collins felt Georgie take in a long shuddering breath, and felt her hands push suddenly against him. She barely had the strength to shrug him off, but he released her. Anger flashed across her face as she separated herself from him, accusing him with her eyes. He’d been the one to tell them to go. Maybe they could have saved a few more men had they delayed, but they couldn’t know for sure. The Moonstone could have easily been caught in the fire had they stayed.

She stumbled as she pushed herself away from him, and Collins reached out to steady her, but she batted his hands away. Her knees gave out as she reached Peter and the boy he had pulled up on deck. She placed a hand on the young soldier’s chest as she struggled to catch her breath.

The boy looked up at her. “Take me home.”


	3. Chapter 3

Georgie had never known fatigue like this. Every muscle in her body felt like it was afire. They had run out of blankets and life vests, far exceeding the number of soldiers they’d hoped to bring aboard. She had tried to walk among them below decks to see if anyone needed anything, but making her way through the crush of bodies proved impossible. 

As she made her way back to the bow, a soldier reached out and caught her hand. She looked down into his oil-stained face. He was looking up at her with wide, tear-filled eyes, looking every inch a child. His mouth opened but no words came out. She squeezed his hand and released it, bringing her fingers up to his hair. He closed his eyes at the motherly gesture and the tears overflowed. 

On deck, there was nowhere she could sit to rest. Her hands were still covered in oil and her wool blouse was soaked through. She was trying not to shiver, doing her best to keep her suffering from the eyes of those who had been through so much more. 

Collins was standing at the port side, looking out into the distance. She saw him and instantly felt her heart lift. He looked so beautiful in the fading light. She had never thought of a man as beautiful before, but it was the only word she could think of that truly described the sight in front of her eyes. In this moment he looked like any other young man out for a sail on a warm June evening, taking in the serenity of the view around him. 

She almost hated to disturb him, but she was feeling quite badly about the way she’d shoved him away earlier. He had only been trying to protect her from the quickly spreading fire when the oil ignited. She thought of the feeling of his strong arms around her shoulders and felt a tightness in the base of her throat that was slowly spreading warmth down into her belly. Quietly, she approached him.

“Mr. Collins,” she began, surprised at how soft her voice sounded.

He turned. “Jack,” he corrected gently. “Or just Collins, if you like.”

“I feel like I should apologize.”

He started to shake his head, making one of those adorable Scottish sounds that meant he was disagreeing with her.

“I was unkind,” she pressed on, trying to keep her apology as formal as possible. “If you hadn’t told us to go when you did...You might have saved all our lives back there.”

He smirked, shrugging it off as if it were nothing. “Just repaying a debt. Now we’re even.”

She tried not to let his sideways smile encroach upon her face, but failed miserably. A playful voice inside her head wondered if being in debt to this handsome man wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. How would he take his payment? Despite herself, she was starting to picture clandestine kisses stolen behind the rigging, and soft words spoken in hushed whispers away from the prying ears of young soldiers. 

She blinked away the fantasy, chiding herself for being so girlish and silly. This was not some storybook ending, she reminded herself. This was war. With France overtaken, the Germans would soon be coming for them and all the men on this boat would have to go back into battle as soon as they were able. This handsome pilot would step off the Moonstone when they docked, and she would never see him again. 

She knew better than most how risky it was to be RAF in this war. 

Thinking of the terrible risk Collins and the rest of his brothers in arms were taking in this war made her remember the way he had been looking up at the sky as the Spitfire fought with the bomber earlier.

“The pilot who shot the Heinkel down. Did you know him? I thought I heard you say a name?”

“Ay, Farrier. My friend. I’ve flown with him for years now.” He looked over the water again. “I knew he’d get the better of them.”

Georgie saw the way he was looking out into the distance, recognizing with a pang of sadness, the look of a grounded pilot longing to get up in the air again. She had seen that look a hundred times. And though she tried with all her might to resist the temptation to tease him, she found it useless.

“That was some very impressive flying. I don’t know if I’ve seen a more skilled pilot in my life.” 

His head snapped over to her, his eyes widening slightly and a wide smile splitting his face. “Oh, is that right? Well, you’ve never seen me fly, lass.”

Seeing his smile filled her with delight, and she tried to think of something else she could say to him that might make him smile more. “Oh, I have seen you fly,” she reminded him. “It didn’t end well, as I recall.”

He laughed, and the sound was shocking in the solemnity of the boat, like a foreign language being spoken or an animal suddenly crying out. From across the deck, Peter looked up at the noise, as well as Mr. Dawson. Georgie blushed at the attention, but a warm feeling of pride swelled inside her that she’d been able to make Collins laugh. 

Suddenly, the smile disappeared. Collins whipped back around to stare out across open water again. For a moment she was confused, but then she heard the engine. 

The plane was coming straight for them, on a path that was too precise to be by chance. They were the only vessel nearby, and packed to the gills with rescued soldiers. Would it target them? 

Collins was instantly on alert. “That’s a fighter,” he called to Dawson.

Dawson stepped out of the helm and onto the deck immediately. “Yes, an ME 109 from the South,” he said. 

Georgie stared up at the plane as it made its approach, dropping to a lower altitude to get a better shot at them. Collins moved beside her, stepping in front of her protectively. 

“Peter,” Dawson ordered, “you take the tiller. Listen for my instructions.”

Peter jumped to the tiller, steering the Moonstone exactly as his father told him. 

“Point her south. Full speed Peter. Keep coming round. Keep coming. Before he fires he’s going to drop his nose. I’ll give you the signal.”

“Now?”

“No, no, wait. Wait for him to commit to his line.” 

Georgie’s heart was pounding. The plane was so close now that she could practically see the face of the pilot inside. Terrified, she imagined that if he could see her, maybe he would see there was a woman on board and hold off his attack. She felt herself leaning toward the oncoming plane, willing the pilot to suddenly stop. But it just kept coming with no indication of slowing or pulling away. Collins was so close to her she had to fight the urge to leap into his arms. Desperately she reached out and gripped his hand. 

“Now!” Dawson shouted just as the ME 109 dropped its nose.

Peter cut the Moonstone hard to port just as the first bullets hit the water. Georgie ducked around and Collins turned his body to sheild her, covering her torso with his own. They could hear the bullets graze the starboard side as the ME passed overhead, just barely missing them.

Slowly she looked up, hesitant to believe they had escaped. Her hand was still clutching the pilot’s, squeezing so hard her nails might have cut crescent moon shapes into his skin. She let go quickly, embarrassed.

“He’s gone,” Collins said.

Georgie looked over at Dawson, hoping he hadn’t seen her holding the pilot’s hand, but he was in his own world. “He had bigger fish to fry.”

“How’d you know that stuff, anyway?” Collins asked him as he made his way back to the helm.

“My son is one of you lot,” Dawson said. “I knew he’d see us though.”

Georgie’s breath caught. The deep well of sadness inside her bubbled to the top all at once and it was all she could do to swallow it down. 

Is.

My son is one of you.

Not was. 

Is. 

The hand that had been intertwined with Collins’ was suddenly burning. She clenched it into a fist and stepped away, not daring to look back at the face of the confused RAF pilot behind her. Dawson was helping the shivering soldier down onto a seat, and she followed.

She could hear Collins turning to Peter to ask a question, and she knew Peter would answer him honestly. She knew he would explain that his brother wasn’t an “is” anymore. She couldn’t bear to hear the words, not again. She preferred following Dawson into his imaginary world of “is”, instead of staying out with Peter in the reality of “was.”

She stepped up to the wheel. “I’ll take it, Dad,” she told him, “rest.”

Truthfully, it was she who needed the rest, but he seemed to understand that she needed her hands and mind occupied for the moment. He let her take the wheel and placed a hand on her shoulder, his gesture still fatherly. When his hand moved away she caught it and squeezed it, and he brought it to his lips and kissed it.

Up ahead, she could make out the barest glimpse of land. She reached up and unwound the scrap of blanket from her hair, letting it fall around her face. Now with her curls framing her eyes, it was easy to block out the unfamiliar bodies crowding the Moonstone. It was easy to pretend that they were all on a family pleasure cruise on a Sunday afternoon.

If she ignored the crush of bodies that surrounded her, she could pretend they were on their way home after a long day on the Channel. Peter had rolled up his pants and dangled his feet into the water. His brother was throwing a line into the water to try and catch a fish. Their father was waving to another passing boat, shouting some smalltalk about the swell or the weather. Here, there was no war.

Here, there was no “was.”


	4. Chapter 4

As they pulled into port, Collins leaned carefully over the side, dipping his hands once again in the cool water. He’d almost got the last of the oil off, wiping his fingers dry on his blanket. As he held it he noticed the frayed edge where a piece of cloth had been torn off. Despite the rip, he folded it and placed it on the deck of the boat. 

Wearily, the men were beginning to disembark, following the crowds as thousands of evacuated soldiers made their way off hundreds of small boats. From where he was, he couldn’t see anyone there to meet them or tell them if they were going the right way. To his view the men in front of him were merely following the men in front of them, as though they were insects swarming in slow motion. 

He stripped off his now-deflated life vest, letting it fall to the ground. The last step off the gangplank was further down than he anticipated and he landed hard. As he regained his footing, a snide voice called out: 

“Where the hell were you?”

Collins couldn’t think of a way to respond. He could tell them that he tried, that he did his best, that he nearly died trying to give them the chance to live. But it was no use. There was nothing he could say that would help, and the soldier was already gone. He lowered his head, preparing to keep his eyes down as he made his way to the waiting trains, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Mr. Dawson.

“They know where you were,” he said, with a nod towards the men making their way off the Moonstone. 

They shook hands, and Dawson turned and walked away. For Collins, there was nothing to do but join the shuffling crowds making their way to the trains that had assembled to take them onward. But he hesitated on the dock, looking desperately through the crowds for that unruly mop of curls that had disappeared after their close call with the ME. He didn’t want to leave without at least saying goodbye to her. 

Georgie came down the gangplank, hopping easily across the gap like she did it every day, and all at once he felt relieved and terrified. He had no idea what to say to her that could convey his gratitude and his longing. The idea that they would part ways tonight and perhaps never meet again was eating at his insides and he was desperate for the tiniest spark of hope that she might want to see him again. She saw him hovering nearby and stepped towards him hesitantly, and he wondered if she too was unsure of how to say goodbye.

She held out a hand for a handshake. “Take care, Collins.”

He held her hand in his a bit longer than he normally would, just wanting to keep her there for one more moment. She was looking up at him and for the first time he realized that she was nearly a full foot shorter than he was. If she were to take another step forward, he would be able to fold her into his chest perfectly. She didn’t slip her hand away, looking up at him with what he thought might be longing in her eyes. Did she feel the same way he did?

“Georgie--” he began. The look on her face was telling him he could ask the question burning in his throat. “Could I--I wonder if I might be able to write to ye...once I’m back out there. Would ye permit me?”

The moment he asked, he regretted it. Her face fell, and she tore her hand away as if she’d been burned.

“I...I can’t” she said.

Quickly he backpedaled. “I apologize. I thought--”

“No, it’s not you. It’s just…” she glanced back at her family. “I know what it’s like when those letters stop coming. I don’t know if I could do that again.”

So that was it. He understood that all too well. He nodded sadly. “Peter told me about your brother. I was sorry to hear it.”

She looked up at him, confusion flashing across her beautiful face. But just as quickly, understanding dawned. A small, sad smile crossed her lips.

“He wasn’t my brother,” she said. “Peter’s brother, yes. But he wasn’t mine. He was my husband.”

By the time the words had registered with Collins, she had turned away. She joined Peter and Dawson, who she had called “Dad.” Her father-in-law, he realized now, not her father by blood. The man watched Georgie with concern as she passed him, putting an arm around Peter’s shoulders as they walked. Dawson spared him one more glance and a nod before he joined them.

The mist rolled in from over the Channel waters, the crowds converged, and the Dawsons had disappeared, taking Georgie with them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be continued in Part Two: Weymouth


End file.
